Space Jam Creative Writing

Ah summer 93'. My older brother and I were getting home from a Grateful Dead show. That's me wearing the t-shirt turban. I had just finished being the bottom half of a human totem pole somewhere between a stoned man's greased dungarees and a roach littered general admission mud pit. You can tell I was feeling good about it. Some say smoking that many blunts out in the open as a five year old could have serious repercussions for my irresponsible copulaters back home, but if my parents taught me anything it was to say, "fuck the man." The kid next to me, who looks like the whimsical creature in basketball shorts that Jordan sang about in Space Jam, is my bro, Andrew. That shit eating grin on his face is because he just dumped a baggy of crushed
quaaludes (back when you could still get them) into a punch bowl of tang and Mrs. Donaldson, our noisy bitch of a neighbor is about to drink her first of many that night. Hilarious!... Little did we know Mrs. Donaldson had been twelve years sober from a cocaine bender she had endured while being a groupie for Huey Lewis and the News. This relapse would be devastating to her and her family. She ended up selling one of her children for an 8 ball of columbians finest and a 3 night stay in a motel 6 with a guy named Marquee or... Marquezz? Can't remember. I know all this because I ran into Mrs. Donaldson, now Debbie Jones, her maiden name, outside of a Ralph's grocery store a few weeks back. She is now 3 years sober with a nice little apartment in Koreatown. She has established contact with her son she gave away for drugs all those years ago. He's now a divorce attorney. I told her it was my brother Andrew who pulled the old prank that would send her life into peril. To my surprise she had a pretty hardy laugh and exclaimed "Good one!!!"